What a Beautiful Buzz
by faith2727
Summary: It's Halloween, and the bash at Damon's bar is in full swing. The only thing missing is Elena, and when she arrives, something's . . . different. She treats Damon to a surprise that leads to one of the most memorable nights of his life. A canon-esque DE one-shot, set post-series finale.


**Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.  
**

 **Title courtesy of "Loving Cup" by The Rolling Stones.**

 **I meant to post this yesterday, but I hope you can still conjure up a bit of Halloween spirit to go along with this story. It's my first stab at a glimpse of Damon and Elena's human life together sometime down the road post-series finale, and it's one big ball of soft, smutty fluff. It's also written from Damon's POV, and I had a blast diving into his head again. It's been too long. ;)**

 **Since you helped motivate me to write this story, Manali, I suppose it's only appropriate that I post it on your special day. Happy Birthday! xoxo**

 **Enjoy, and please leave a review! :)**

* * *

"Gimme a Sam Adams."

I turn my attention from the bottle of Jack I just cracked open to the owner of that slightly whiny, annoyingly familiar voice. The guy's a regular, which I should appreciate, but most of my goodwill dries up the instant he opens his mouth. My hand hovers over the line of bottles beneath the bar, waiting for him to make a decision.

"Which one?" I mutter after ten full seconds of silence during which he fails to notice I don't have fucking ESP.

"Oh! Octoberfest, if you have it."

How festive. I toss a coaster on the bar and slam the bottle down on top of it, startling him. It's only fair considering I almost dropped the damn thing when I got a load of his getup. It's a fusion of Anne Rice and Coppola's Dracula, complete with a velvet coat and ruffled, white shirt. Still, the attire's not half as distracting as the yellow contacts and crooked fangs.

He mistakes my revulsion for approval. "Nice, right? It's a big hit with the ladies," he whispers like he's sharing one of the universe's coveted secrets.

Riiiight. Maybe if you're trying to seduce Marie Antoinette. Swallowing at least a dozen insults, I offer a dose of constructive criticism.

"You're missing the veins, and the eyes are wrong. Red, not yellow. And the fangs . . ." I dip my head to make sure. "They're on the wrong teeth."

I narrowly resist the urge to add that, given the choice, it's a rare vamp that'll go for beer over anything stronger than eighty proof. Beer doesn't stop your bones from vibrating. Bourbon, on the other hand, soothes the savage beast.

His goofy grin slips, and he straightens the collar of his ridiculous jacket, instantly offended. "What are you, some kind of expert?"

I don't miss being a vampire, but if I could step back into my fangs long enough to give this guy a glimpse of what a real monster looks like, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Just a stickler for authenticity," I mutter. I ignore the way his eyebrows pop up and saunter to the other end of the bar to deal with the next costumed customer.

Before I can figure out if the guy's a Ren Faire aficionado or just a really devoted Monty Python fan, he derails my train of thought.

"Can I get, uh . . ." He squints at the board where Elena doodled the names of our specialty cocktails in multicolored chalk. "'The Doctor'?"

I laugh while giving him a subtle onceover. Clear eyes, good posture, no tapping fingers or twitchy lids. He's not even lightly buzzed, which, at 9 o'clock on Saturday night, is saying something. Judging by his hesitation, he's not a hard drinker.

The concoction he ordered is one of Elena's own creations—a brew she invented to help her deal with the stress of exams and other medical school-related traumas. The positive side? After one or two of those suckers, you won't remember your name let alone any problems that might've been plaguing you. The downside is you'll be bonding with the porcelain god for hours afterward.

"You sure about that?"

He scratches his head and shifts on the stool, his chainmail clanking on the metal legs. "What's in it exactly?"

"Well, let's see." I rarely make it, so the details are a little fuzzy. "Vodka, rum, tequila, triple sec, gin, amaretto, peach schnapps . . ." I tick off each one on my fingers, grinning as the guy's eyes turn glassy. "I haven't even gotten to the non-alcoholic ingredients. Should I keep going?"

"No, no," he blurts out, waving his hands like I've already started pouring the thing. "I'll take a . . ." More staring at the board. "What's 'Fang of the Vamp'?"

Ah, Alaric's contribution to the menu. "Hard cider, bourbon, and ginger ale."

"Yes, one of those, please."

As I splash a healthy amount of bourbon into a tumbler, I follow his gaze to where it's rooted on a woman in medieval-princess garb, a damsel in distress waiting for her gallant knight to rescue her from the dragon. Or in this case, maybe just the piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe. She smiles and blows him a kiss then goes back to chatting with someone large and covered in body paint, who's either the Hulk or possibly the Jolly Green Giant. Depends on the guy's mood, I guess.

"That your wife?" I ask conversationally, noticing the gold band on his finger.

"Yeah."

His answer has about as much enthusiasm as a weather observation, so I prod him again.

"She the love of your life?"

He blinks a few times as I set his drink in front of him. "Uh, yeah." He clears his throat and gives it another go, more convincingly now. "Yes, she is. We've been together five years."

I nod and wipe up a drop of bourbon that missed the glass. "Then what's the problem?"

More blinking. "Problem?"

"You're drinking by yourself while your wife enjoys the party. Most couples, y'know," I toss the rag aside and gesture around the room vaguely as if that'll help him understand my point, "mingle. Together."

Here comes the long-suffering sigh. Typical.

"It's just . . ." He takes a swig of liquid courage before continuing. "We've been to, like, four bars on this pub crawl she wanted to do, and it's been fun, it has, but these costumes are so lame, and—"

I hold up a hand, interrupting his stream-of-consciousness babble. "You're crazy about her, right?"

"Of course, but couldn't she have chosen something cooler, like yours?" He's focused on my classic rock homage, complete with wild hair (the perfect excuse not to brush it) and pants so tight my eyes water every time I bend over.

What I'd really like to do is shake some sense into the guy, but I take my frustrations out on a couple of empties instead, chucking them into a bin. "Listen, man. Being in love with someone, _really_ in love, means benching your ego and dressing up as a knightly hero or a frog prince or a piece of pepperoni pizza because that's what you do. If it makes her happy, makes her smile, what the fuck does it matter what you're wearing? You're doing it for _her_."

Damon Salvatore, purveyor of unsolicited relationship advice. Who knew?

Mr. Mopey sits up straighter and looks at his wife then back at me. His wife again. Me.

"Actually, that's . . . you're right. Thanks." He hops off his stool, drink forgotten, and struts over to his lady, clanking like a tin can the entire way. He strikes a silly pose, she laughs, then they're kissing like two teenagers about to sneak out of prom early and have sex in the limo.

Okay, that's a visual I didn't need, but whatever. Problem solved.

###

 _Miss you, babe. Hope you get here soon cuz without you, I can't get no satisfaction . . . ;)_

Yes, the former badass vampire from the wrong side of the tracks is one whipped sonofabitch who texts his girlfriend to tell her how badly he's jonesing for her when he hasn't seen her beautiful face since she kissed him goodbye this morning.

I reread the text. He's also a raging dork, apparently.

Elena doesn't respond right away, so I tuck my phone back in my pants then think better of it, tossing it on a shelf instead. There's barely enough room for me in these things.

A witchy duo and the cutesy version of the Devil park themselves at the bar, and I busy myself taking orders and filling drinks. It's hard to believe that a year ago, I was up to my ass in dust and drywall. Now, As the Crow Flies is throwing its first (successful, if I do say so myself) Halloween bash.

Checking the clock, I realize it's almost time to judge the costume contest, a duty that belongs to my absent partner-in-crime—

Everything goes dark as someone puts their hands over my eyes and nibbles my earlobe. "Hey there, handsome," she murmurs in her sex-kitten voice. _My_ sex kitten.

The lights come back on as Elena steps away, and I spin around, hoisting her into my arms. Her ass meets the countertop as I wedge myself between her thighs and kiss her the way I've been needing to all damn day. It's soft at first—a peck here, a hint of tongue there—then it turns into my favorite kind of kiss, the one that usually leads to me stripping her bare and burying my cock in her delectable body.

Unfortunately for us (me, Elena, and my hard-on, which is about to tear open my zipper by itself), we're not in the privacy of the loft, and the whistle I just heard definitely wasn't my imagination cheering us on.

Our mouths part, reluctantly, and it's a mash-up of heavy breathing, frustrated coos from Elena, and colorful bitching on my end until we get ourselves under control. It's then that I finally get a good look at her. She's wearing enough leather to start me up, and we both know I'll never stop until we're lying in a sweaty, sated heap in our bed. Or maybe we won't make it that far. The floor works, too.

Her hair is the same inky black as mine, which is ten kinds of sexy and gives her that rebel edge, even though I know it must be a wig. It's shorter than the bob she's been sporting for a while now. Her bangs are caught in the tangle of her lashes, and I brush them aside so I can see her eyes—really see them—and watch their transformation to a shade of dark mocha that tells me her panties—if she's wearing any, the minx—are soaked.

The tank peeking out from under her red leather jacket is snug and low-cut and _Jesus Christ_ , she's not wearing a bra. The jut of her nipples is as obvious as it is hot, and if we weren't in plain view of fifty-odd people, there's no question where my mouth would be.

"So, Mr. Jagger," she purrs, sending my dick into fucking riot mode, "do you know who I am?"

Shit, I barely know who _I_ am right at the moment. I have a solid hunch, but I give her another onceover just for the hell of it. The hair, the clothes, the chorus to "I Love Rock 'n Roll" she's humming . . .

I clear my throat and cup her ass, tugging her closer to me. It's a move I ultimately regret as my erection presses tight to her core. "Joan Jett," I manage to grunt through clenched teeth.

"Very good." I must not hide my wince in time because she frowns and kisses my cheek like I'm a toddler with a boo-boo. "What's the matter? Pants too tight?"

"You could say that." She rocks her hips a little, and I bite my cheek until I taste blood. "You're not helping, FYI."

"Sorry." She's grinning, so she's not _that_ sorry, but she does back off so the whole bar doesn't witness me having a blue-balls meltdown. "How was your day?"

A subject change. Praise be. "Long. Lonely. What about you? Any gory stories to share from your shift? How'd the doctor's appointment go?"

She has a kind of wild excitement in her eyes now. A happiness so damn contagious I find myself smiling without really knowing why.

"You're such a horror junkie," she teases. Well, yeah. Former creature of the night here. "No, no stories, and all's well. Just the usual checkup-type stuff."

Huh. Then what's she's so buzzed about? To be honest, I was imagining another scenario, maybe one where she puts my hand on her belly and asks if we should paint teddy bears and bunnies or lions and tigers on the walls of the nursery. We've been trying for the past six months, but so far, there've been two negative pregnancy tests and a bout of would-be morning sickness that was actually a nasty case of the flu.

It's fine. We're not rushing things. It'll happen when it happens and all that jazz. Until then, we'll just keep enthusiastically giving it our best shot, pun intended.

"Speaking of which, Dr. Kern wanted me to remind you that you're overdue for your physical," she says, a little too cheerfully for my taste.

Yuck. "Can't you just do it? I'll gladly let you get physical, er, give me a physical, baby." I waggle my brows, but she's not having it.

The memory of my first doctor's visit after I'd been rehumanized pops into my brain, and I snicker at the comedy sketch _that_ turned out to be. I forgot myself (I still do that sometimes) and made a crack about how I hadn't seen an honest-to-god doctor since before they drove old Dixie down, torture-happy Augustines and a compelled Elena lookalike excluded. If my girl hadn't been there to excuse away my special brand of quirky humor, I'd be sitting pretty in the psych ward.

"What's so funny?" She's fascinated by my mouth all of a sudden, tracing my bottom lip with the tip of her finger.

"Just thinking." I capture the wandering digit between my teeth and gently nip her. "Can I get you something hard"—her gaze drops to the bulge in my pants—"in the, uh, alcoholic sense?" I sputter. Fuck. One more glance like that and I'm gonna bend her over the bar. I'm in the middle of fantasizing about her breasts pressed to the polished mahogany when I notice her reaction to my question.

She stops on the cusp of ordering and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, almost shyly. "Actually, I'll take some non-spiked punch. I don't want to ruin my day off tomorrow by starting it with a hangover."

It's a valid reason, I guess. Still, a long, tiring day equals at least one drink in Elena's book. Or it used to, anyway.

"Besides, in a few short hours, I get you all to myself," she adds, shrugging out of her jacket so I can stare at her perky tits again. "Then we can go upstairs . . ." she pauses with a hand on my chest and the other skimming up my thigh, "and make beautiful music together. What do you say?"

"Hell. Yes."

###

When we crash through the door to the loft, Elena's legs are around my waist, her lips are sealed to my neck (even without fangs, this is still hot as fuck), and fabric is tearing. I'm not sure if it's her shirt or mine until I feel cool air on my skin.

Yep, definitely mine.

She peels the ruined fabric away from my chest and her sneaky fingers latch onto my nipple, giving it a tweak. I hiss and misstep, bumping into the perpetually smiling scarecrow by the hall table, almost toppling it.

"'Scuse us," I mumble before I remember the thing's not real. Shit. Having Elena in my arms never fails to short-circuit my brain.

I trip over a fat pumpkin with a zombie design carved into its face that took me _days_ to do then nearly pulverize a gnarly, wart-covered gourd Elena fell in love with at the farmer's market. If I don't move us to the bedroom soon, there won't be anything left of the decorations. At least ninety-five percent of it is already cataloged on Instagram for everyone's viewing pleasure (hashtag autumn aesthetic), thanks to my girlfriend, who's now clawing at the button on my pants. Oh, there goes the zipper, too.

Hashtag blessed.

I'm five seconds away from peeling Elena off me and tossing her on the couch so I can ravish her properly when I notice the new addition to our vegetable collection. Sitting next to the television are two mini pumpkins with funny faces on them that me and Elena drew for each other. In between them is an even tinier one with a heart and a question mark painted on it.

"Really, babe?" I mutter. "Did you think our eighty-seven pumpkins would be lonely without _another_ friend?" This is getting out of hand. Are there pumpkin hoarder support groups?

She stops kissing my collarbone and glances at me with wide eyes, as if she didn't realize where we were. "Oh, um." She chews her lip for a moment then unwinds her legs from my waist and hops down.

"Worried we're gonna scandalize the gourds?" I joke, hoping to ease whatever has her looking so wigged.

"No." Her gaze lands on the tiny pumpkin then flits back to me. "I was planning a cute way to tell you this, but I guess I got a little distracted with, y'know, the heavy petting that was happening."

I'm torn between returning to said petting and getting to the bottom of the mystery. "Tell me what?"

She smiles, and it's the same one from earlier, down in the bar. Crazy happy. Just-won-the-lottery happy. "This guy, or girl," she quickly adds, pink flaring in her cheeks, "is symbolic."

I don't make a habit of being intentionally dense, but I'm going to go with it. Just this once. "Symbolic? Are you hanging up your scrubs so we can move to the country and become farmers? We could be outstanding in our field," I tease.

"Not exactly, you goof." She gestures toward the trio of pumpkins. "It's us. Our family."

Um. Wow. Uh. Hmm. _Whoa_.

I swallow then do it again because I've sort of forgotten how to speak. "You, me, and . . .?" I finally manage.

She steps closer and takes my hand in hers while I try to hide the fact that my goddamn knees are knocking. This is it. This is really it.

My palm settles on her warm belly, guided by my love's steady hold. "This little bean right in here," she whispers.

There's a loud _thunk_ that I briefly register as my kneecaps connecting with the hardwood floor as I sink down in front of Elena until I'm at eye level with her navel. I replace my hand with my mouth, peppering her flat stomach with kisses. I hum her name over and over between each press of my lips, my mind spinning with the revelation of what we've done. What we've created.

A kid. _Our_ kid.

A tear lands on my cheek, and I can't tell if it's mine or Elena's. "How far along are you?" I whisper as if my voice could somehow shatter the moment.

"Not very. Three weeks, maybe four. I'll know for sure after the next appointment."

I rack my brain for any hints I might've missed. Has she had morning sickness and I haven't noticed because I'm usually dead to the world until at least noon? What's another sign . . . a healthy glow? Elena always looks like she's glowing to me.

"How have you been feeling?" I ask instead, still mentally kicking myself for being so oblivious.

"Not bad. Queasy at times, but that's new this week. Something was just . . . different. I can't really explain it." She combs her fingers through my unruly hair, and I almost laugh at the visual she must be getting. Me, masquerading as a British rock star with a torn shirt and a fly that's at half-mast, kneeling at her feet and kissing her belly. Oh, and crying. Can't forget that one.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She smiles and dabs at her own watery eyes, doing a damn good job of not smearing her mascara. "I didn't want to disappoint you if it was nothing, and if it _was_ something, I wanted to surprise you."

"You certainly succeeded there, babe."

There's a tug on my hair, and I stop nuzzling her stomach long enough to look up.

"Do I get a kiss, too? My lips are feeling a little left out," she pouts.

That's all it takes for me to stand and gather her in my arms, my mouth easily finding hers and showing her without words how insanely happy I am. I twirl her around until we're both dizzy then gently set her down again, grimacing and cussing at myself. She just told you she's been nauseous, you idiot.

"Sorry," I murmur, checking to see if she's turning green. "I, uh, got carried away."

"Damon, I'm pregnant, not made of glass." She rubs against me, all delicious curves and soft, warm skin. "Besides, without you, I can't get no satisfaction," she sings in a husky growl.

Well, hello there, hard-on. Welcome back to the party.

"That's my line," I rasp as she palms me through the opening in my pants.

She yanks off her tank, and I lick my lips at the sight of her bare breasts.

"Make good on it then."

Don't have to tell me twice.

###

Somewhere between the living room and the bedroom, Elena loses the wig, but I'm too busy to notice since she's whispering filthy things in my ear and I'm trying my damnedest not to drop her. All I know is she's back to her usual chocolate-colored locks by the time I gingerly lay her in the center of the massive four-poster that dominates our room.

My instinct is to pounce on her like the horny bastard I am and lick, nibble, and thrust until neither of us can tell up from down, but I keep myself in check. She deserves to be worshipped every night, but tonight . . .

Tonight is special, and I'm going to take my time thanking her for making me the luckiest, happiest man on the planet.

Elena can tell where this is headed, and she doesn't seem very enthused with my newfound patience. She's already kicked off one boot, and the other hits the floor as I watch. Her leather pants are next, and she shimmies out of them, revealing what I suspected earlier—she isn't wearing any undies.

"Fuck, Elena."

"Yes, please," she says coyly, spreading those thighs and showing me how wet she is. How ready.

"Elena . . ."

Here I am with my cock practically crawling out of my pants in an effort to get at the love of my life, who's lying there completely naked, waiting for me to join her, and I'm rooted to the spot like my feet are planted in cement.

She sighs and crooks a finger at me. "C'mere."

I take one step and another, then she's grabbing me by the waistband and pulling me toward the edge of the bed where she strips me in five seconds flat. Now that there's not a stitch between us, she smiles, her hand curling around my dick. Her thumb teases my slit, slicking up the head with the pre-cum pooled there, and I snap out of my stupor, gathering her fingers in mine.

"What are you doing?" she asks, obviously confused as to why her sex-fiend of a boyfriend isn't getting with the program. "Don't you want—"

"Of course I do."

"Then what's wrong?" She frowns, cupping my cheek with her free hand. "I'm not going to break, Damon."

"I know."

I nudge her onto her back, hovering over her without putting too much of my weight on her. Entwining our hands, I press them to the mattress on either side of her and lean in close enough to trace a line from her collarbone to her jaw. With my tongue. She shivers when I reach the sweet spot just beneath her ear, mewling my name.

"Relax," I murmur, nipping her lobe. "I'll give you everything you're aching for and more, but I won't rush. Not this time."

She blinks at me but doesn't protest when I release her and settle myself at the bottom of the bed, near her feet. As I plan my seduction strategy, I watch her wheels turning. She's trying to figure out what my angle is, but I don't give her the chance. Starting with her toes, I kiss my way up her long legs, lavishing attention on her ankles, calves, and thighs. When I reach the underside of her knee, she squeals and I barely manage to dodge a kick to the head. Damned ticklish spots.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly but with a hint of a smirk.

Payback is swift as I spread her legs wide and delve in, turning that impish smile into a startled moan of pleasure. Because I adore teasing her like this, and because it drives her insane but also gets her _extremely_ hot and bothered, I part her folds and explore every inch of her sex as slowly as I possibly can. A swipe of tongue here, a tender kiss there, an occasional flick to her clit—it's like a sexy mathematical equation that adds up to one head-thrashing, back-bowing orgasm.

Her hands tangle in my hair, but I gently pry them loose. No cheating by holding me in place. I keep at her until she's begging for release, her body writhing in frustration, bucking against my mouth. When she's almost at the breaking point, I stop dallying and tongue her clit with rough strokes, adding just enough suction to send her over the edge.

"God, _Damon_!" Her scream of bliss puffs me up with pride, and I have the urge to open the window and tell anybody who's listening that, yeah, you're damn right I'm responsible.

My fingers replace my mouth, slipping inside her as my lips focus on their next target: those beautiful breasts. Before she comes down from her first high, I'm already building her toward the next one, suckling her nipples into hard peaks.

"Holy . . ." she gasps, arching into me, her breath exiting her lungs in harsh, little pants.

"Too sensitive?" It might kill me to leave her breasts alone, but I'll deal if I have to. Somehow. "Do you want me to stop?"

She shakes her head, coaxing my mouth back where she clearly wants it. "No, definitely not. It's just . . . intense. In a good way."

Relieved by her answer, I trace slow circles around one nipple while gently tugging on the other with my teeth. I used to love enticing her like this with my fangs, jacking up the ecstasy by adding a hint of danger, even though we both knew I'd never hurt her. It was purely for show and the thrill of discovering how wet she'd get whenever the big, bad vampire came out to play.

I start humming while I draw her nub deeper into my mouth, partly because I'm so fucking ecstatic and partly because I know what it does to Elena. Sure enough, she cries out, grinding her clit against the palm of my hand. She's always been a bit of a wild thing in bed (which suits me fine), but if this is a taste of her under the influence of pregnancy hormones . . .

Challenge. Accepted.

She hooks her leg over my hip—a non-subtle nudge that she's ready for round two—and I inch higher, kissing the hollow of her throat, her chin, and finally, the tip of her nose, bypassing her pink, swollen lips.

"Damon."

"Yes?" I bat my lashes at her, giving her the fake-innocence shtick.

"I'm dying here," she groans, reaching between us to stroke my leaky cock until my eyes are on the verge of crossing.

"You seem fine to me. Cool as a cucumber." I'll pay for that joke, sooner or—

"Da _mon_."

She squeezes me for emphasis, and I grit my teeth as my dick goes from hey-this-is-fun to whoa-easy-there. I settle a hand over hers and together, we guide me exactly where both of us want me to be. The head rubs against her slit, and I take a moment to bask in the feel of her warm, slick skin on mine. It's heaven, right here in this loft, and now I'm the one who can't wait any longer.

I surge forward, easily filling her to the hilt with a single thrust. As she adjusts to me, I nuzzle the crook of her neck, savoring her intoxicating scent while she sifts through the curls at my nape. I used to think it was bullshit when people would say their significant other was made for them (and vice versa), but this . . . this is too perfect for it not to be true. We fit in every sense of the word.

My hips sway with a familiar rhythm as I rock into her, and I lose myself in her body and her kiss, my tongue mimicking the glide of my cock. Her throaty moans are muffled by my mouth, but she doesn't seem to care as her other leg joins the one already circling my waist. Elena digs her heels into my ass, and I growl at the encouragement, not that I need it. My finesse is already faltering, and it slips further when she clenches around me, biting my lip as the pleasure grows.

I tear my mouth from hers, dragging in some much-needed oxygen so I don't black out. Two years and change after my return to humanity and I still need to remind myself to breathe sometimes. Chalk it up to The Elena Effect.

She meets me thrust for thrust, even as they become rough and ragged, and my last coherent thought is how gorgeous she looks as her next orgasm barrels toward her: skin flushed and damp with sweat, hair tousled, breasts bobbing in time with our movements, eyes dark and locked on mine.

"Ready to come for me, baby?" I grunt, pressing my thumb to her clit. She jerks and clamps down on my dick so tightly I almost ruin everything by beating her to the finish line.

"Yes! Ooh, my—"

Her words abruptly transition into a shrill scream as her climax hits with the force of an eighteen-wheeler, dragging me into oblivion with her. My cock jerks as I empty myself inside of her, hips stuttering while her inner muscles milk me for every last drop. When my arms can't support my own weight anymore, I roll onto my side to avoid collapsing on top of her. Elena stays with me, snuggling against my chest as we lie still—except for the aftershocks rippling through our bodies—spent, but utterly content.

"I love you. So fucking much," I rasp once I find my voice. I bury my nose in her hair, breathing her in. "You," I pause to palm her belly again, "our child. I never thought I'd have a family, not like this, and it's all because you saw a sliver of good in me and refused to give up. You're my life." A tear trickles down her cheek, and I catch it before it lands on the pillow. "You both are, along with any other little beans that might happen to come along."

She giggles then hiccups, her laugh turning into a sob. It's a joyful one, though.

"I love you, too. You're going to be an amazing father," she adds, but the fear that sometimes lurks in the back of my mind makes itself known, telling me I won't cut it as a dad.

"You sure about that?"

She beams at me, so open and trusting, and in that moment, I know I can do it. I'll give my kids (yes, plural, because who are we kidding) every ounce of love and happiness I was denied as a child. That shit about history repeating itself stopped a long time ago.

"Absolutely," Elena murmurs, then she's kissing me, and my world—dark and fucked up as it's been, but no longer—is complete.


End file.
